7 Sins
by Realilly
Summary: Artemis's 7 sins...not your average 7 Deadly Sins, no, not at all...dark, includes character deaths. Leaves much up to your mind! 1shot, can either be Artemis x Opal or Artemis x OC


**A/N: Wow. I am quite surprised with this—it turned out quite a bit better than I thought it would. I kind of went along with the plot as it came with each "sin", lol, and then in the end I finally got it. If you're confused…review! And I'd love some really great concrit, k? That's not too much to ask, I think… ;)**

_7 Sins_ by _ckontowderdon32 _

Prologue

Seven deadly sins? He knew no sins. Sins were mere illusions created by an ancient man with a white beard and an old wood stick picked up from the ground—mere trifles to him. Conscience was the past, coming back to haunt him, a flitting shadow in the darkness and light of his mind. Twisting, burning, laughing from the depths where he dared not go…not _that_ far.

_Hypocrite,_ as it wept tears from its eyes in its mirth. And he was, which was only salt in his fresh wounds, the blood dry and crusty.

He dismissed it as he had Butler, as he would.

_Would_, he scolded himself.

His head had been in the clouds lately.

* * *

xx.LOVE.xx 

He stood under the shower head. Water struck his skin, gliding down his hair, neck, his bare, smooth back, legs. He shivered. It alleviated him just as much as it trapped him.

The world tilted violently. Slicing him, biting him, the water slapped his face, spitting and foaming. He swore fiercely, striking out at the tile, turning. It was not the water's fault. Not the showers. He stood like that, facing the tile, the shower of water, filtered-to-perfection water, hitting his side. But not hating him. Not anymore.

The world returned to its regular place. He forced himself to breath slowly, to stop heaving like a race horse. Was it impossible to finish the race? To feel her legs against his, twining around him?

He closed his eyes. _Yes, yes it was._

He finished last, dripping into the dry tub, plummeting through the air, pushing it aside.

No one was there to catch him. The bathroom was empty, except for the fog on the glass mirror. Haunting laughter for no one to hear but himself rang in the walls, bouncing and echoing long after his "sins" were swept away, clean.

But his thoughts lingered.

* * *

xx.TRUTH.xx 

Truth…ah, how he hated the word. If he had ever had an enemy worthy of his malice, it was that creature that took shape in everything he—NO, it was not love, it never could be! It never had been!

He forced himself to smirk, to stop now while he was—well, not quite ahead, but not losing so badly as he had before. _Before…_

Truth. Was _that_ where his mind had wandered? He spoke as an adult speaks liltingly to a child, dangerous fangs hidden behind glittering, beady eyes.

But the child stands silent, solemn, staring…and then runs.

Truth…what was there to say? It was your typical story…girl loves boy, boy despises girl, girl flirts with boy, girl is filth in boy's eyes, boy decides to kill girl.

Truth…well, that was for the authorities to figure out.

He grinned, lips curling maliciously, a lion with a mouse, turning it over in its paws. Great, big, velvety paws with muscle underneath. _If they could._

_Fool that she was._

* * *

xx.DEATH.xx 

Not murder, not homicide, not suicide. Not mass killing, not nuclear war blowing up in front of their shocked faces.

That was pleasure.

This was death, dying yourself. How he cursed gold and youth, wishing that as a young boy he had toyed with the idea of clones or body control…ah, how he loved the idea of taking over someone else's body. Alas, he had been stupid.

Seeing someone else die slowly was pure, unadulterated, 100 concentrated satisfaction. Shooting a gun often was quick and—dare he say it—almost…sinful. But watching the emotions flickering over and on and within their faces was amazing, like watching a movie.

_And the movie was real…_he grinned, eyes sparkling deviously.

He eyed the crowd, genuine happiness on his face. He was a boy with gold in his pockets once again.

"Butler," he whispered into his nearly invisible microphone, "I will have my fill tonight."

He would live on in spirit, burning in the fiery lake. If you believed that sort of thing—he really couldn't care less…_or more_.

"Why hello…Artemis the second, I believe?" A young lady was charming, seductive, with rare beauty on her face. Her dress was flattering, but glittery and hurt his eyes as the light reflected off the many sequins. Artemis stared at her chest openly. He could have laughed at how apparently eager he was, but it was all just a game.

A game he _always_ won.

He nodded, feeling devious and backstabbing and sexy. He then looked up at her for a second, studying her…then moved on.

Her face fell visibly, disappointed at her running horse. Or was he the jockey?

_And there's one…_

No, he would never die.

They would.

* * *

xx.LAUGHTER.xx 

They taunted him, those peals and giggles and chuckles and large belly laughs. Pinning him down, forcing the truth from him. Torture, that was what it was—clear torture. Nothing but.

They would tell jokes, laughing, about those which were labeled stupid, slow, gay, or of low racial status. He would not laugh, but stare in their eyes. Was he all of those, they wondered? Certainly not stupid—he was supposed to be a genius.

Well…_supposed_ being the key word there.

There were whispers behind his back where he walked. They cleared a path for him—he was Moses parting the Red Sea.

Red Sea. He liked that. He grinned. Their blood would fill a sea.

Scattered whispers brought chuckles of amusement.

He hated them all. The smile drowned in a sharp frown.

* * *

xx.NAIL POLISH.xx 

The intoxicating fumes filled his mind until he was reeling around the room like a drunk. To have it on lady's fingernails, delicate and inspiring and lingering, he couldn't help but take her hand and hold it to his mouth, feeling the smoothness of the nails. Not soft—hard and unfeeling, but so, so beautiful.

_Too_ beautiful.

And the colors—my God, it was sinful, simply sinful, about how much there was of it. Little bottles of odor just waiting to knock you out, even though the shining color pulled you in, until your nose just touched the glass, and brought you to reality—but you breathed in.

At least, he did.

He coated his nails with a clear layer to protect them. He had to be careful, though, that no water would touch.

He shook his head, clearing it. Until he saw only the night in front of him, tapping on the glass outside his window…but he meandered back to nail polish, and his fingers lying o the desk.

He could see her hand reaching towards his lips…her soft smile…

Water was pure, but nail polish was beautiful.

* * *

xx.PASSION.xx 

Ah, passion…almost as bad as trust, with its backstabbing and betrayal.

He had known passion…but he resolved, he had _sworn_, that he would never get involved with that again. Never.

And yet here he was…thinking about the bed's frame, and how it must have shook, and the mattress, which must have been bouncing at some points, and the pillows, and how they had ended up on the other side of the bed, and how the lights must have been flickering…and their sillouettes…

Had he been beautiful before the bullets? Had he been worthy of adoration, of praise, of passion?

Butler had been. How odd, then, how _ironic_, then, that he had never received any of those?

Well, he concluded, he never had been intelligent, only just instinctive.

He had deserved to die. At the hands of his fr—_NO! Stop!_

He covered his ears so that he wouldn't hear the bullets, pounding through his brain, bringing back memories of falling…yes…friends.

Passion…what passion was there left for him…now?

For a second he dared to think that perhaps he deserved this fate.

Then he poured himself more vodka into the shot glass with his slim, pale fingers, brought it to his lips, stared into space, and thrust his head back, enjoying the feeling of it gliding down his throat.

He slammed it down onto the table.

* * *

xx.PAIN.xx 

Not pain, where the burning, scorching, white-hot nearly drove you insane. In all honesty (here he shuddered), he already was…well, only partially, his mind allowed.

But in all honesty—flinch—it was the pain that people unintentionally inflicted upon him. He was being honest—wince—here, and it was the pain about Butler and her and the twins.

Why….oh, _why_…had he ever taken them? With the store names and the clown and the fountain and the pennies and the water and the bubbles of air…

And to think that it was all because of her…

He saw her blood on the floor, her eyes open like his re-opened scab, betraying the monster and human inside. Not genius. Just humanity.

And he took a deep breath and kissed her lips, taking her hand in his, feeling the smooth nail polish.

7 sins...one for each murder committed. But only she was the one holding his heart in her hands...in the form of her blood.


End file.
